Your Eyes
by HaiImCourtney13
Summary: Mimi lives with Roger. Roger is gay. So's Mimi. Mark is the sexy little cameraman-by-day-stripper-by-night that lives downstairs. What happens when Roger and Mark cross paths? WARNING: Possible self-harm, drug abuse, alcohol abuse, and other addictions. Slash/Smut/Lemons in the not-so-near future. :D R&R please. I'll update faster.


**Your Eyes**

**Chapter 1**

**Okay. So. If you don't figure it out on your own. Mimi is a lesbian. Roger is gay (duh.) She's living with Roger. I'm debating about having HIV/AIDS in this fic or not. I have plans for this, don't worry. But! It will be a while before anything _exciting _insert eyebrow waggle happens. Ugh. Trust me, it frustrates me just a much as you, if not more -_-  
**

**OKAY WARNINGS. **

**1.) THERE WILL BE POSSIBLE SELF-HARM, DRUG ABUSE, ALCOHOL ABUSE, AND ADDICTIONS.**

**2.) THERE WILL BE SMUT/SLASH/LEMONS IN THIS STORY. IF YOU DO NOT APPROVE OF THIS. I SUGGEST YOU LEAVE NOW.**

_**Disclaimer: I do not own RENT. The late and great Jonathon Larson does. But if I did. God only knows how I would've written and ended RENT...**_

* * *

Roger sat cross-legged on the floor, his guitar resting in his lap, trying to write a good song. His mindless plucking always turned into a crude-sounding version of Musetta's Walt. He glanced over to the door as it noisily slid open. His female roommate, Mimi, stalked in.

"Hey Meems," he said, setting his guitar aside on the floor.

"Hey Rog," she sighed quietly, coming to sit next to him.

"You okay babe?" She sighed and nodded as tears filled her eyes, contradicting herself. Big, brown eyes blinked to try and will the tears away. Mimi Marquez was a tough girl. Mimi Marquez did not cry.

"Yeah. Maureen just left me for another girl is all." Roger growled and wrapped his arm around her.

"Mimi, that girl is a total slut! You can do sooo much better, and you deserve better. She probably has like, herpes or something anyways," Roger teased. Mimi burst into a fit of giggles despite herself.

"Roger. I'm gay, remember? I like vagina. And although I'm flattered, really, I am. I'm pretty sure that you're gay as well," she teased, winking at him.

"Shut up," he grumbled. "Mimi, my love, why can't you give us a chance?" Roger cried jokingly, over-dramatic.

"Because I like vagina. Not dick. Unlike you." Mimi swung her legs to lay across Roger's. "Speaking of gay and men and dick and whatnot. You remember how I was saying something about how we were working on opening another club on the upper level?" Roger nodded, vaguely remembering something along those lines. "Well, it's open and running now..and it's a gay bar. Guy strippers, guy servers, it's a guys only club." Roger perked up at hearing this, and a wicked smirk plastering itself across his face.

"I wanna go. I think we should go. D'you wanna go?" Roger bounced excitedly and Mimi laughed.

"Roger, I just left from there. I have had enough it for one day. Maybe tomorrow. But right now, I'm gonna shower and head to bed. I'm beat." The skinny girl stood and yawned, as if to prove her point. Roger frowned slightly.

"But Mimi-"

"Goodnight, Rog," she giggled, and walked off into the bathroom. Roger huffed and crossed his arms, bored again. His eyes scanned the room, looking for something to do. Green eyes landed on his guitar. He picked it up and grabbed his leather jacket, cigarettes, lighter, lyrics book and pen, then headed for the roof. He always did his best writing up there.

_"One song, glory; One song, before I go; Glory, one song to leave behind,"_ Roger sang, strumming out minor chords. He paused for a moment, then let out a frustrated sigh. Usually coming up to roof gave him amazing inspiration, but, tonight, he couldn't find it. He put a cigarette in his mouth and pulled out his Zippo. As he took a long drag from it, he looked around the roof. _"Find one song, one last refrain; Glory, from the pretty boy frontman; Who wasted opportunity,"_ he sang as the smoke left his mouth. Mimi was always calling them cancer sticks and yelling at him for it. But she didn't have much room to talk...just look at the track marks on her arms.

"Roger, still trying to come up with that song?" He spun around as he heard a deep, familiar voice speaking.

"Collins! You already know." They hugged and Roger put his guitar down.

"Puh-LEASE tell me you don't have plans for tonight." Roger beckoned around him.

"These, uh...these are the plans."

"Well then. Get your ass all sexied up. Put the damn eyeliner on thicker. We're going to Cocktails."

"What's that?" Roger asked, curious about the name.

"The new gay bar above Catscratch." Roger jumped up, almost knocking Collins over.

"Well, what are we waiting for? Let's go!"

"Glad you're so up for the idea."

"WAIT! Let me go put on some better eyeliner." Collins smirked and the pair walked down to the loft, and Collins tapped his foot impatiently as Roger put on fresh eyeliner, his favourite pair of pants; a green, gray, and red plaid pair of jeans, a forest green sweater, his combat boots, and his beloved leather jacket. Damn, do I look sexy or what, he thought to himself and he reapplied the eyeliner, making his eye look a bright smokey green colour. The duo finally left after a half hour filled with Collins whining about "wanting to see some boy booty in his face."

* * *

It was no secret that both Roger and Collins were gay. They just weren't gay together. They were like gay brothers.

They sat together at a table right next to the stage, and Roger was scanning it, looking for any cute boys that seemed innocent.

"Hi boys! My name is Angel. Can I get you guys anything to drink?" A very pretty girl was at the table, holding a notepad. Collins was the first to speak, as Roger was still looking at the strippers dancing on the poles and grinding on each other.

"Collins here. I'll take a beer, and my friend here will have, uh...just a water." Collins smiled at her, and she winked.

"I'll be right back with them." Collins watched her ass in a very non-discreet manner as she walked away. He knew better than to mix Roger, alcohol and boys. He's seen what could happen first hand.

"Dude, Angel is hot!"

"Dude, I thought you were gay," Roger spoke, still searching for that perfect boy.

"Angel is a boy, man."

"No way, she's too pretty."

"Dude, they only hire guys here!" Roger looked at Collins and laughed.

"Well, make sure you get her number." Roger went back to staring at the stage when he noticed a boy that wasn't there before. He was dancing, and, by God he could dance. He'd never seen a boy dance that well, let alone a white boy. He had very pale skin, ginger-blonde hair, bright red booty shorts on, (with lipstick to match), and dark fishnet gauntlets covering his arms. He was skinny, but oh so toned at the same time. What attracted Roger to this boy, though, was his electric blue eyes. They were so blue it should be illegal. Roger couldn't take his eyes off of him. The boy didn't look to be a day over 18, but Roger knew that the way he moved his hips against the pole that he was mature for his age. Those big, blue eyes were rimmed with black eyeliner. He grabbed another boy and turned him around, grinding against him. The dollars came in like it was nothing. Pale Boy dropped to the ground and crawled seductively over to Roger, smirking and winking as he went.

Roger was getting hot. He stripped himself of his jacket and ran a hand through his feathery brown hair. Pale Boy stopped right in front of Roger, and turned around. He thrusted against the ground, and Roger couldn't help but reach up for his ass. Pale Boy turned around just in time and stopped him. He took Roger's hand and ran it down his thigh.

"No touching the strippers, sir," he whispered seductively to Roger. The boy stood and walked up to his friend he danced with before. Roger was mesmerized. He couldn't stop staring as the boy shook his ass against his friend. Roger didn't even notice when his water was set down next to him, or when Collins was flirting with Angel, or when he got Angel's number. All he could look at was Pale Boy and his glorious ass and his beautiful eyes.

"Roger, I think it's time we left before you rip your pants!" Collins teased, acknowledging the erection that was threatening to tear through Roger's jeans. Roger stood and stretched, not caring if anyone saw his erection because he knew damn well that he wasn't the only one with a hard-on here.

"I don't really wanna, but, I guess we have to."

"Good man." And the pair walked out, Roger sneaking one last glance at the boy. He had pulled his shorts down far enough to reveal his ass, and he winked at Roger and mouthed the words, "I'll see you later." Roger smirked.

Let's just say, Collins almost had to drag him out of the club; and Roger wasn't even drunk.

* * *

"So, get Angel's number?" He asked as they headed to the loft.

"Actually, yes. AND, she is a guy. She just prefers being called a girl." Roger giggled and patted Collins on the back as they reached the loft.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Rog. I've gotta go hit up my girl." Roger smiled. He was genuinely happy for Collins.

"Alright, man. G'night."

"Night." Roger trudged up the stairs, thinking about nothing but those perfect blue eyes, squeezed tightly shut as Roger slammed into him; the red lipstick outlined mouth moaning his name as he gave him the best head he'd ever receive. By the time Roger got into the loft, he was hard again. He tried to close the door as quietly as he possibly could, knowing Mimi was already asleep. The last thing he needed was to get caught wanking again. He threw his jacket on the table and plopped onto the couch, getting his pants unbuttoned as fast as he possibly could.

"I think I'm in love with a stripper," Roger mused out loud, then scoffed.

He freed himself, shivering at the cold. He was about to wrap a hand around himself when there was a knock on the window. He knew it wasn't a homeless person, they couldn't get to the fire escape from the ground. He tucked himself back in, groaning at the new-found confinement. He fixed it so it wouldn't be as noticeable. As he walked over to the window, he saw the silhouette of a small, thin, figure. He opened the window and let the person crawl in. It was a boy, ginger hair and glasses. A blue and white scarf was wrapped around his neck and he kept his head down. He had a candle in his right hand. He kept his head down.

"Can I help you?" Roger asked, leaning against the window pane.

"I-I'm...uh, Mark. I was wondering, if, uh...this is weird-" Roger noticed that the was shivering violently. His first guess would have been withdrawal, but, he knew better.

"Dude, come inside, it's freezing!" The boy stepped inside.

"Th-Thank you," he stuttered, teeth chattering.

"What did you need?"

"Uh..this is kind of weird. But er...I was wondering if you had a light? My heat and power got shut off, and it's kind of cold. I'm out of matches," He held the candle up. "Would you light my candle?"

The boy looked up as he said candle and Roger froze as his green eyes met the boys. The boy's bright, electric blue eyes. Roger was in awe. It was Pale Boy from the club.

"I'm Roger. A-And yeah. Have a seat on the couch. I'll be back." Roger was shaking as he searched the pockets of his jacket for his Zippo, glancing over at Mark. He was nervously looking around the room, fiddling with the sleeves of his sweater. Roger hadn't even noticed that the boy took his coat off. Roger walked over to him.

"You found it?" The boy asked hopefully.

"Yeah, gimme." He snatched the candle from the boy, lighting it. "You look really familiar," Roger spoke softly, handing the boy the candle as he sat down next to him. The boy froze and turned a sickly shade of embarrassment. He began to stutter.

"I-er that's not..uhm, possible, I just, uh, m-moved in the other-other day. From Scarsdale." The boy couldn't seem to get his words out properly. Roger was amused. It was funny to see this boy, this bumbling, mess of an awkward, nervous, shy boy, after seeing him be so confident at the club. Roger was positive it was him.

"Are you sure? I don't forget faces easily."

"I-I'm positive-" Roger moved in closer.

"Really? Because I'm pretty sure I saw you at Cocktails earlier this evening," he growled, amused at the blush rising on his cheeks.

"I'm fucking positive," Mark growled back, pushing Roger away.

"Mark, I'm telling you. I couldn't ever forget those eyes. And I saw them at Cocktails earlier." Mark turned even redder, if possible, and bowed his head in shame.

"I...I need the money," he said quietly, fiddling with the sleeves of his favourite red and blue sweater. "I'm NOT fucking gay though," he growled, noticing the look Roger was giving him. _If I'm not gay though, why am I sweating so much and the thought of this man?_ He thought.

"Okay, Okay," Roger said, putting his hands up defensively. "So, besides being a stripper," he received a glare from Mark, "What else do you like to do?"

"Let's get one thing straight, dude. I don't like stripping. I'm a filmmaker. I hate stripping, but, I need the money so I can get my camera fixed to finish my documentary. I love filming. It's my life. I just...I need the money. I came here for college, but, those planned went down the drain.." Roger nodded. He had the feeling that the albino kid was lying; he just couldn't place the feeling. "What about you? I know this little place is called like, Bohemia. I've heard the Bohemians are all like, talented or some shit." Roger nodded and smiled.

"I'm a singer- well, I used to be a singer. I had a band, the Well Hungarians. We, uh...we split up after my lover killed himself." Mark's bright blues softened.

"I-I'm sorry Roger...Do you still sing though?"

"Yeah. I mean, I try. I still play guitar too. Haven't came up with a good song in a while though." They fell into an awkward silence, until Mark yelped. Roger gave him a very confused look.

"The, uh...wax. It's dripping." Roger's smokey green eyes met Mark's blue ones and both boys felt a spark go through them.

"You should probably be uh, a little bit more careful with that," Roger murmured. The ex-rocker began to lean in when Mark jumped up, leaving Roger disappointed.

"Uh, yeah. I'll be, uh...more careful. Th-Thanks for the candle."

"I only lit it," Roger said, smirking.

"You know what I meant. Well...bye!" And Mark scurried out the window. Roger grinned as he left. Tonight would be the first of many nights that Roger would pant out the filmmaker's name as he came into his hand.

* * *

It would be the same for Mark, but, instead of contently falling asleep, he stayed up dangerously late, thinking.

It had started two years ago, after his (now ex) best friend kissed him. He couldn't deny the feelings, he couldn't deny how much he loved it, no matter how bad he wanted to, no, of course not. But he tried. He tried everything. He figured out a way to surpress them. And he did. At first, they were just scratches and scrapes, made by paper clips and safety pins. It progressed slowly over the two years, the pins turning into razors and the clips turning into his switch blade. He had messy patterns covering his wrist; pink scars, gray scars, bright red scabs, and dark brown scabs. Anytime he would get those-those feelings, he would cut to make them disappear. After work he would do it for hours. He did it instead of crying. If he was frustrated, he cut. If he was sad, he cut. If he felt like crying, he cut. He hated crying. It made him feel weak. He felt like he was failing his father. He loved what he did for a living; and he hated himself for it.

He hastily rid himself of his beloved red and blue sweater as he stalked to the bathroom, and gazed hatefully at himself in the mirror.

He should have never asked Roger for that lighter.

He choked back tears and reached for his switchblade, flipping it open. He pressed the ever-sharp tip to his skin and slid it, watching with a sick fascination the bubbles of crimson that surfaced and blew up before bursting against his almost translucent skin. He sighed and did it once more, then twice, until he lost count. He didn't realize he'd been in the bathroom for hours. He could do this. It was high school all over again, but, he knew he could do it. He could lock those feelings away again.

Thanks God he was allowed to wear his gauntlets at work.


End file.
